


Butterflies and Deja Vu

by zombiekittiez



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Explicit in later chapters, Galra!Clone Keith, In a Galaxy Far Far Away, M/M, Sci-Fi adventure, cause they're clones, clone!shiro, galra keith who don't human good, gratuitous pop culture references, sad keith childhood is a universal constant, way in the future fic, will update tags with later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28764924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiekittiez/pseuds/zombiekittiez
Summary: The clone of Takashi Shirogane struggles to find his place in the world- and finds Keith instead. Meanwhile, Galran Keith must put his trust in the strange Alpha who seems to know him or risk losing more than just his chance at happiness.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 53





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> I did not tag major character death but because this is a future fic that deals with clones most of the original VLD cast is dead. Just a heads up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If It Wasn’t For You, My Life Would Have Been A Lot Different

When the soldier first woke up suspended in a faintly golden glowing tube, he had known two things: his name was Keith Kogane and he was bound to live, to serve, and to die for the Galra Empire. 

It made no difference that he was small and underdeveloped. His first steps out into the world were instinctive and toddling, weak from youth and general disuse. This, Computer had assured him, was commonplace. In the Great Galra Empire, all must do their share. Even kits. 

It did not occur to Keith to question his circumstances. That he was alone, that the other dozen or so tubes in Laboratory K-386-APA were compromised in some way- cracked or damaged, without power, or in a few cases swirled with a twist of black and purple threaded through the gold that made Keith shiver and look away on instinct from the putrid smell rising within- 

These were not things that Keith understood to be strange. Not at first, anyway. 

He followed the lights along the metallic flooring that led from his tube along into the Nursery. There were other tracks for other tubes and at the time Keith had wondered if he would ever see them brighten and criss cross paths. 

(he wouldn’t)

The Nursery was nicer than the Labs. Keith’s bare feet sank into the softness of the plushly padded floor and he paused there, half-in and half-out, surprised by the change in sensation. Impatiently, Computer beeped. It was a noise he would come to learn well, over the time to come, denoting displeasure and impatience at Keith’s inability to adhere to some unknowable timeline for achievement. 

The floor shifted beneath Keith’s feet and he stumbled forward into the Nursery proper, a gate rising and clicking into place behind him, cutting him off from the Lab. For his protection, Computer had said, and eventually it would even be a little true. The mesh was tiny and strong, flexible metallic fibers woven together too tiny for even Keith’s littlest finger to slip through, from floor to ceiling. 

The Nursery flooded with a warm, inviting smell- herbal and milky, clean and comforting. It drew Keith further in, sniffing and prodding curiously as he made his way around the open empty space, prepared for any number of kits to live and work and train together for the good of the Empire. 

_vrepit sa,_ Computer coached him to say from monitors all along the walls, mics focused inward to detect his heart beat, his breathing, and his answering shout. 

(his first words)

It was an easy routine to fall into. 

Twice a day the feeding tubes dispensed a watery but filling gruel. When it was time to rest, soft fibers and bedding slid out from their compartment along the walls. On occasion Computer would extend a thin metallic hoop from the wall near the floor that Keith would step inside undressed; the subsequent ionized air jets would remove any residual particles: dust, dander, dried sweat. Hydration allocators along the wall provided adequate moisture, metallic and gritty in his mouth from recycled particulates. 

The rest of the time, Keith attended to his Lessons.

Languages, first. Galran, Altean, Olkari, Unilu. Once Computer was satisfied with his proficiency, he unlocked Terran: English, Espaniol, Nihongo, Te Reo, Putonghua, Russky. Speaking first, then reading and writing. He practiced the unfamiliar curves and dots and jagged lines against the wall monitors until his digits spasmed, until Computer glowed the mild yellow of approval. The Nursery vents would send out that sweet green smell and Keith’s chest would thrum with a purr even as he licked and licked his trembling wrists for meagre comfort at night in his nest. 

Physical Training was added next. First Keith copied the simple movements along with the monitors. Bends and stretches, then flexibility training. His favorite by far, however, were the Games. Sometimes the Nursery terrain would shift and stretch, creating a jagged landscape for him to skulk along and hide from Computer’s little searching lights. Sometimes a little buzzy fuzzy bot would roll along the floor for him to capture. As he grew, so did the Games. Soon the buzzy fuzzy bot would roll along the walls, Keith scrabbling his claws for purchase along slick walls, pushing himself to run faster, jump higher, reach further. Sometimes it flew. Sometimes it would sting Keith along his arms and face if he was not quick enough. 

One quintant, Keith woke agitated. He could not focus on his lessons, even when Computer regressed to Unilu phonemes, something he could have done his first movement away from the Lab. It had been many phoebs since then- decaphoebs, even, though time was never a lesson that Computer was overly concerned with. Even when Keith did eventually learn how to calculate and determine, vector and plot time differentials, relativity, and speed of travel in relation to gravity it was nearly impossible for him to understand as it related to his life, to the here and now. 

Two things were to help Keith with his understanding of time. One he would learn that very day; the other, some decaphoebs later. 

Keith felt terrible. His stomach twisted and ached; he mouthed unhappily at the gruel as though he were not used to its soft texture, its tasteless and nutritious formula. He felt damp and sweaty, especially beneath his clothes and between his legs. He was stung four times by the buzzy fuzzy bot and in a fit of sudden hot anger he had torn it to pieces. He mourned, after, looking down at the bits of fluff and loose gears, though Computer seemed pleased. He was not to fret. This too was normal, and an indication of his Galra maturity. His adolescence was upon him. Keith was having his first heat. 

Computer explained to him coolly the biological imperatives, the mechanical processes of procreation, as Keith writhed in his nest- too flat, too empty, and too cold. He felt perhaps for the first time keenly his lonesomeness. There was nothing to hold, nothing to scent, no warm someone to curl and nose against. There was only the vast open floor of the Nursery. When he cried, Computer beeped disapprovingly in response. Galra endure, Computer reminded him. Keith learned to turn his noises inward when he could, to stifle them against the press of his palm against his mouth when he could not. More than once his fangs cut into the softness of his own fist, even through the thin bedding he used to smother his whimpers. Keith learned clinically of reproduction and sex for recreation and bonding, but understood nothing of desire or pleasure. His heats were detestable things, wretched periods of misery that taught Keith to dread the passage of time and the slow inexorable changes in his physical make up. 

After his first heat, Physical Training shifted. He learned to fight, to use forms and to improvise, to use weapons and himself as a weapon most of all. Keith wasted no movement, expended energy in the most efficient and effective ways. He grew, muscles lithe and height increasing. 

His lessons shifted also, once his language mastery was acceptable to Computer. He learned history and tactics, warfare and culture- to play an instrument with keys and tones in a pleasing fashion, to speak politely on the weather, to create and break a code, to fashion an impromptu timed explosive. He learned technology, to fly a ship, to change a system’s programming, and knew by now enough of what Computer did not teach him that Keith could use it to change Computer’s directive, to force his way past firewalls and to coax Computer into new shapes. This knowledge Keith never used; Computer was all there was in the world for Keith now. He had learned. The buzzy fuzzy bot stayed broken, hidden in his bedding. His only playmate, gone. Keith would not make the same mistake again. 

Sometimes there were noises, just beyond the Nursery. Skittering sounds and crashing sounds, sometimes sounds like systems coming to life, lasers firing and klaxons blaring. After a time, they would die away. 

It was nothing, Computer told him. Security breach that had been dealt with. Security logs were classified. One quintant soon someone would come for Keith and he would begin his true mission, what he had been created for. He would bring glory to the Empire. Until then, he would learn. 

Then Keith looked up from his training, short Luxite blades in each hand. He could hear something just on the other side of the metal gate- a scraping, grating noise. Shadows moved on the other side. 

Security breach, Computer said. 

Space cargo rats are a nuisance species, most of the time. They can live in nearly any condition, hibernating until conditions are ideal. They can survive by ingesting anything organic in origin and quite a few advanced synthetics. Though vicious and territorial, they are easily dispatched under normal circumstances by routine pest control protocols in adolescence. 

The six adult space cargo rats that burst through the doorway were four to six feet in length, with jaws that crunched through the metal security like wet paper. 

But Keith had been training all his life. 

“Vrepit sa,” he said, raising his blades. 

It had been an arduous battle, Keith’s first. He’d wear the scars forever after, a gash along his side and a rough spot along his tail where teeth had scored, rending his fur there short and sparse. Overrun and overwhelmed, the rats had rampaged through the room. Their heavy animal stink soiled the soft padded floor of the Nursery, tore along the walls and smashed through monitors and glass. Open wires sparked in the air, parts rendered asunder by corrosive saliva. Irreparable. 

In the end, Keith had lived and the rats had died.

(he never heard Computer speak again)

Keith reclaimed Laboratory K-386-APA, flicking through what data he could salvage from the ruins of the mainframe. There were other labs in similar levels of abandonment and disrepair. He found no Commander, no standing orders. As he put his lessons into practice, gathering intel and securing perimeters, salvaging supplies and concocting strategies, Keith began to understand. 

He had seen enough to know that this was not the scene of triumph, but of defeat. 

The Empire was gone, and he had been abandoned. 

So Keith had gone to the mainframe and painstakingly set up the pathetic little relay system. The most basic of code, repeating bursts. Then he waited for them to come… to come and to kill him. 

But _they_ hadn’t come. 

Shiro had.


	2. Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Good To Be Back

The blinking red light and thready whistling alert wakes Shiro mid-snore, and he snaps his mouth closed, half turning in his bunk to hit the button embedded in the wall before he’s really awake. 

“Malo soifua, Shiro.” 

Shiro glances up. Instead of the pleasantly nondescript sunset over a blue ocean that he’s used to starting the day, a live feed is connected to his wall vidscreen. An old man, still powerfully built despite the gray hair and deep wrinkles, smiles back at him, white even teeth bright against his tanned skin. 

Shiro fumbles, attempting to hurl himself out of the bunk and to his feet. His blanket, always kicked off mid-sleep to bare his overwarm feet, tangles somewhere between his knees and thighs and he has only a single moment of chagrin mid-air before he falls over with a resounding thump onto the cold metal floor. 

There is a pause in which he attempts to compose himself flat on his back. 

“Alright there?” The voice is tinny coming out of the speakers but clear enough that Shiro can hear the mix of amusement and genuine concern. 

“Peachy,” Shiro wheezes, getting to his knees and pulling the covers away, flinging them to the side. He takes a deep breath and gives a pained smile aimed approximately toward the camera at the top left. “What’s the, uh, special occasion, Doctor?” 

The man’s eyes go puppy-dog sad almost instantly. “It’s Hunk, Shiro. _Hunk._ I know it’s been a while since we spoke last, but I don’t want you to think I need a special reason to vidcall when you’re in range.” 

Shiro crosses his arms, acutely aware that he’d gone to sleep shirtless, irritated at even the hint of vulnerability that brings. “So you don’t need anything?” He asks, looking away. 

“Well…” Hunk looks sheepish now. 

“Uh-huh.” Shiro feels a little more even-keeled now, turning to his dresser and fishing out a serviceable undershirt. It takes him a few to find the sleeve, though, in his nervousness, and his slim prosthetic nearly tears through the thin material when he isn’t as careful the second time. 

“You can say no,” Hunk says. “You know that you can always say no. You don’t even have to answer my calls…” at this, Hunk looks devastated, but manfully continues. “You’re not obligated to me in any way.” 

“What’s the mission?” Shiro asks. “Sir,” he adds, because he’s feeling petty. 

Hunk looks deeply unhappy but lets it go. “There’s a strange signal in your sector. It’s coming in on the old pre-Coalition frequency, and it seems to be a deliberately looping FRB.” 

“An SOS?” Shiro guesses, frowning. 

Hunk shrugs. “It could be anything, but we’re pretty sure it’s non-organic. Something mechanical is projecting that signal deliberately, and it’s extremely weak on a frequency that is more or less archaic. It could have been looping for years. So it might be nothing.” 

“That’s not _nothing,_ ” Shiro points out. “That could be valuable wartime scrap. Junkers would kill for that kind of lead.” 

Hunk looks serious. “That’s not funny, Shiro. They will actually literally kill for a chance at that kind of tech, and some of the Empire remnants are too dangerous for open market, so they’ll be especially ruthless.”

“I’ll make it first,” Shiro promises.

“You’re not getting it,” Hunk sighs. “I don’t care about the tech, I care about _you._ You’re the closest contact we have to the signal’s origin point, but your life is not worth some old Galra trash nobody’s cared about for a hundred years. If you’re willing to scout, great. If it’s too dangerous, I can send another team instead. One with multiple agents.” 

Shiro flexes his prosthetic arm and says nothing. 

“Maybe…” Hunk hesitates. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” 

Shiro looks up sharply. “I can do this.”

“It’s not the doing, it’s the asking.” Hunk looks over him, searchingly. 

“How many…” Shiro chides himself for asking, but… “How many of us went solo like I did?” 

“Just you.” Hunk half smiles. “The rest paired off, or requested teams, or even stayed planet side. Some work as contractors and some are completely civilian.” 

“How many of us do you call Shiro?” Shiro asks, looking back at his arm. 

“Just you.” Hunk’s eyes go a bit far away. He’s seeing Shiro, and he isn’t. “You’re so much like him,” he murmurs. 

“Lucky me.” Shiro mutters darkly. 

Hunk’s eyes snap back into focus. “Contrary to what you might believe, being a clone doesn’t mean that you’re the same exact person. That’s why we gave you all the choice, renaming, education protocols-”

“I remember the spiel, sir.” Shiro says stiffly. 

“Yeah? Maybe you need a refresher,” Hunk says, his famous patience finally fraying at the edges. Shiro wilts a little where he stands. Hunk presses a button on his console and the display is dotted with images. Pictures of Shiro, but not Shiro. Shiro with two arms, Shiro without the white streak, Shiro with slim builds and short builds, heavy Shiros, muscled Shiros. Long hair Shiro. Pink mohawk Shiro. 

“Takuya is a team lead in cartography data collection. He and his mate raise yuppers in their spare time. Takahiro took over my galactic catering division. His specialty is lemon-juniberry bundt cakes. Takeuchi is a hairdresser planet-side on old Earth. He has over 70 trillion followers on Universalgram-” 

“Stop. Please.” Shiro has a hand over his eyes, breathing hard. 

A click. The screen changes back to Hunk. 

“I’m sorry, Shiro,” he says, and he looks it when Shiro risks a glance. “I didn’t know what to do with you. I thought you wanted your space, so I gave it to you. Maybe you needed a push, I don’t know. But I need you to know that I care about all of you, not because of where you came from, but because I just… do.” Hunk makes a helpless sort of gesture. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Shiro admits. “That this is somehow so much harder for me than the others.” 

“I have a theory,” Hunk offers. 

“Yeah?” Shiro looks up through his bangs suspiciously. Hunk puts up a hand in defense. 

“It’s not like I was hiding it, we just never… talk. Most of the others have asked their questions and made peace, more or less, with everything. You were always a lone wolf. You jetted out to space the first chance you got, and you’ve been doing whatever small jobs would keep you free and flying solo for the last three years. I thought you didn’t care to know.” Hunk explains. 

“It’s not like I didn’t care,” Shiro says, feeling his throat tightening. “I just…” He trails off. 

“Well now I’m saying it.” Hunk tells him gently. “You can ask, anything, anytime. And this is my theory: you’re the most developed of the clones, the furthest along in your life cycle. You might not know this, since you refused to have contact with any of the others once we revived you, but all the clones were at different stages of development. Some had only vague memories of childhood, some had false ones implanted. Some remember the Garrison, some remember the arena. Only a few know Voltron, and as far as I can tell, you are the only one who remembered everything up to Allura’s transference event. I know because I know all of them.” 

“Isn’t it hard?” Shiro asks bitterly. “Trying to be space-uncle to all the copies of your dead friend?” 

He’s sorry as soon as he’s said it. Hunk has never been anything but kind to him, he doesn’t deserve Shiro’s ingratitude thrown back in his face. Not as much money as he and the Holt Institute of Technology spent on Shiro. The medical bills alone… 

“It’s lonely,” Hunk says gently, interrupting his thoughts. “Alone with memories of the dead.” His eyes, on Shiro’s, are too kindly and too knowing. 

“At least your memories are real!” Shiro bursts out passionately. 

“They’re real, Shiro. Just because that body, those eyes didn’t see them, doesn’t make them any _less._ Listen. When I chose to come out to space and to keep traveling, I knew that this would be the end result. The time differential during light speed travel meant that everyone I knew, planet side, aged and died normally while I lived on and on. I knew I would end up alone. I thought I could handle it, but… Well. In a lot of ways, finding you- _all_ of you- gave me purpose again. Stumbling across the remnants of Haggar’s lab was the best thing that ever happened to me. I honestly think I would have laid down and died a long time ago, without it.” Hunk smiles sadly. “I can only hope that one day you find the thing that will do that for you.” 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says stubbornly. “I’m flying, I’m healthy, I’m alive. This is fine.” 

Hunk lets it go. After they disconnect, he sends Shiro the coordinates. It really is close- only maybe eighteen varga. Shiro sets the auto-pilot and spends most of the time rearranging the miscellany he’s accumulated in the admittedly limited cargo bay space. He should have decluttered ages ago, but he’d gotten a strangely pleasant sort of thrill the first time he’d been at an Olkari swap meet and seen an ancient Game Boy cartridge sitting all by its lonesome, presented on a wide green leaf. They’d traded it to him for a song, unsure of what exactly it was meant to do, and it had taken him eight months to find a system that would work it, and another two to find an engineer willing to jerry-rig a renewable power source comparable to four double A batteries. After that, it had become a little bit of an obsession, picking up pieces of old Earth side bric-a-brac here and there. Something familiar that he could actually touch and hold and feel and know himself, in this body, first hand- even if he’s never actually been to old Earth. 

If the tech he finds is that valuable, if the new cargo is that vital, he can always jet his junk, or leave it for a second run. A direct request from Hunk Garrett, Director of the Holt Institute of Technology, Earth Ambassador of the Coalition, only surviving Paladin of Voltron is rare, and even if Shiro didn’t owe him, it’s an honor to be asked. Any of the others would have jumped at the chance to do something for their benefactor, not- not whatever Shiro had done. He’s an embarrassment. 

He does the best he can with the time he has to prep, wolfing down a handful of ration bars while he takes a final pre-exploratory inventory, and managing a few hours of sleep besides. Shiro’s not good about eating properly. Preparing and eating real food seems like such a hassle when it’s just him- ration bars are just as good, even if the flavor is bland and the texture gritty. Too many lonely meals have robbed food of all real pleasure. It’s fine, gives Shiro more time in the day to worry about more important things.

By the time the autopilot chimes, alerting him to the need for oversight, Shiro is dressed in his Terrestrian exploro-suit, utility belt around his waist and heart thumping in his chest. It doesn’t matter how many times Shiro does this, the rush of landing in a new place always gets him. It’s the little piece of him now that’s the same as the first, the need to push, to go, to see. 

The signal origin point is a derelict satellite station, hovering around an undesignated moon off Xanthe-85, a planet so yellow with noxious chlorine gas that it’s practically a dead spot, even in a fairly well-traveled sector of space under Coalition protection. The station travels at the exact speed needed to maintain near perfect invisibility in the shadow of the moon; a clever natural cloaking device for the time it was constructed. Shiro overrides the autopilot and circles twice before he finds the perfect spot to land- a secondary launchpad near the far north side, much smaller than the main docking area which is strewn with the debris of quick abandon. 

Shiro lands neatly, glad that the structural integrity of the station at least seems to be holding up well. Everything is quiet and still in a way that should be frightening, but Shiro rather likes the dim view. A place of the dead, and one who should be dead here to see it. Still, he takes his side arm. You never know what kind of creature might take up residence in a hull like this. If it’s only a horde of cargo rats, he’ll count himself lucky. Nasty buggers, if they catch you off guard.

Outside the ship, Shiro taps the side of his helmet twice, cueing the Pangalactic Informational Directive Garrison Educational system online. 

“Alright there?”

“Ready and rarin’,” PIDGE responds, voice wry. “How come you never boot me up except when you’re doing something dangerous?” 

“I only need you when I can’t do everything myself,” Shiro says, feeling a little foolish about explaining himself to an AI. 

“Pretty sure that’s how people work, though? Humans are social creatures, Shiro. Though what do I know, amiright?” Shiro rolls his eyes. “I saw that. Ship is armed and automated, and live feed patched to remote communications.” Behind him, he hears the creak of the ship’s outer shields activating. “The atmosphere is 78.05% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, and 1% variable gasses.” 

“Those are human levels,” Shiro notes with surprise. 

PIDGE snorts. “So Earthrocentric. Many species from varied environments developed similar atmospheric requirements. Like Olkarian or Daibazaal.”

“Duly noted,” Shiro says. “No need for the full PPE, then?” 

“No. And your filtration system probably needs a good cleaning anyway. It won’t be more than 60% effective against biological scent, including hyperosmia or pheromone changes, so-” Shiro’s helmet folds back into itself, retracting into his suit except for the thin visor across his eyes, connecting to his earpiece. He takes a deep breath. The air is metallic and slightly stale, in the way space stations often are, without constant intake or oxygenation tank refreshers. Still, it’s good air and he feels fine breathing it in. Shiro’s always had a good sense of smell and taste besides; all alphas do. The visor scans his surroundings, recording what he sees for later study, highlighting briefly what he focuses on. 

“See anything valuable?” Shiro asks, stepping slowly around 

“What are you, a Junker? A lot of this stuff would belong in a museum, if it were in working order.” PIDGE scoffs. “Nothing you’ve scanned so far is worth the fuel it’d take to haul it back. Saving up for something special?”

“I’m broke.”

“Hm. A scan of your credit history says otherwise. You have a tidy sum set away in the trust account from the Holt Institute, even if your personal account is only fractionally net positive.” 

“I don’t touch that,” Shiro says darkly. He walks into the ruins of the shuttle bay, glances with interest over the touch-sensors, and the more-or-less intact purple lights along the floor, guiding him past overturned crates and empty security stations. Once he steps out of the emergency landing area and into the central hub, his breath catches. It’s not huge, but it’s impressive, all dark metallic beams and criss crossing pathways. This was an important place, once. 

“What is this?”

“It’s a research facility, pre-Coalition era, Galra Empire.” PIDGE identifies. “Translation systems are a go.” Shiro’s gaze sweeps across the space and the signage rearranges itself in the visor to spell out basic directions. Main dock, emergency hangar, mainframe, storage, labs. 

Labs. 

Shiro shivers. 

“Shiro?” PIDGE beeps. “You are exhibiting signs of emotional duress. Would you like a microdose of oxytocin to counteract the adrenal response?” 

“Negative,” Shiro says sharply. 

“Your blood pressure-”

“I said no,” Shiro snaps. “This is why I don’t activate you shipside.” 

PIDGE huffs. “No need to be rude about it.” 

Shiro ignores the AI, electing instead to turn down the corridor marked mainframe. There’s likely to be a jack PIDGE can plug into and run a scan for inventory or shipment records that will tell them if anything is worth picking over. It’s also likely to be the source of the FRB. 

A few steps down the dimly lit corridor, though, and Shiro freezes in place. 

It isn’t a _sound_ in any way that he can describe it. It’s a sense, honed through survival, of knowing when you are not the only living thing in a place. A faint scent- something alive. 

“Shiro?” PIDGE questions. 

“Run 360 biometric scan,” Shiro orders. He turns quickly, but the hallway is, of course, empty. He unholsters his blaster. 

“Scanning.” A beep. “Scan complete. No biometric signature detected.” 

“Run it again.” Shiro tilts his head very slightly to one side. Was that bit of plastic sheeting moving faintly? Shiro shifts around to his left. 

“Shiro…”

“I said run it again,” Shiro snaps. 

“Scanning.” 

In that split second before the beep, Shiro feels it- hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He brings up his blaster, swinging around, and- 

There’s something long and sharp pressed to the underside of his jaw, along his neck. Firm enough to mean it, delicate enough not to break the skin. His blaster is caught half-raised and utterly useless. Shiro inhales automatically- he smells something warm, cinnamon and intoxicating as rum. Violet eyes glare up at him from inches away, framed by a fall of long dark hair. 

He knows this glare. 

“Foreign biometric detected,” PIDGE says cheerfully. “Human-Galra hybrid.” 

“Keith,” Shiro says helplessly, as his blaster clatters to the floor. 

It’s him. _Him._ Shiro sees him enough in dreams to know him on sight- those eyes, that thin-pressed unhappy mouth. Even if the details are… different.

He smells… really good. 

Keith’s ears, purple, furred, arched pinna rather like a giant cat’s, perk up, then lay flat. Keith leaps backwards, eyes wide. The short twin blades are held in furred hands, claws delicately retracted, in a way that is practiced and familiar. A tail lashes behind him once and stills. Still, that nose, that angry mouth, those high cheekbones, that scrunch of his brow, like he can’t believe what’s happening either. It’s him. 

“Do you… know me?” Keith asks cautiously. 

PIDGE lets out an ominous mechanical alert. “Heart rate suboptimal. Blood pressure dropping.” 

Shiro blinks but it happens in slow motion, the drape of his own long eyelashes stuttering across his view. He feels hot and dizzy. He can’t breathe past the sweetness and spice. 

“Fuck,” Shiro chokes, before passing out.


	3. Keith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shut Up And Trust Me

Keith catches the Terran before he hits the hard ground. It seems as good a response as any- from Computer’s lessons he had learned that they are often fragile and easily injured. 

_“Shiro!”_ A tinny voice is calling from somewhere in Keith’s arms. He leans the Terran against the wall in a seated position, grasping his chin with a firm but gentle hand, claws still carefully tucked in. He smells appealing- or perhaps Keith is too used to the scent of cargo rat and expired rations. It isn’t something he’s experienced before, and he indulges himself in a deep breath inward, scant inches from the curve of the Terran’s throat. 

_“Shiro!”_ The voice calls again, and this close Keith pinpoints the sound to the small device up against the Terran’s decidedly strange rounded ears. Delicately, Keith extends his claws and uses them to remove the device which is only clipped on, not surgically attached. The extraction is successful and the Terran is undamaged. The voice is droning on and on- something about _Institute property_ and _Coalition directive jurisdiction,_ but these words mean little without context and so Keith ignores them. 

Hesitantly, Keith holds the device up to his ear. 

“Vrepit sa,” he says in greeting and then there’s a whirr and a series of clicks and the device attaches itself to his ear. 

Keith rockets up, tail fluffing in shock and displeasure. He paws at his ear frantically, but it seems firmly set despite his agitation. 

“What are you doing?” A voice demands. “Take me off at once!” 

“I am trying!” Keith shouts rather desperately, rocketing around the hall in his distress. 

“Stop, stop-” then there’s another series of clicks. “Registered User: Keith Kogane,” the voice says. 

Keith stills. 

“That’s you, isn’t it?” The voice asks, sounding much more assured this time. 

“Maybe,” Keith hedges. 

“Hm…” The device clicks once more and a visor scrolls across his eyes. He bats at it instinctively. “Stop that, now,” the voice says. There’s a brief warm light. “Retinal scan confirmed. You’re Keith Kogane.” 

“How do you know my name?” Keith demands. “How did he know my name?” 

“I know your name because you’re a primary user. Shiro knows your name because-” the voice breaks off. “Shiro! Keith, I need to check his vitals.” 

Keith creeps closer to the Terran still slumped against the wall. “This is your Shiro?” He asks, just to be sure. 

“Takashi Shirogane, designation Phoenix-542. Biological age twenty seven. Piloting License Niner-3X9205B,” the voice recites. “Oh, that doesn’t matter just now, stop asking me questions, I’m busy.” 

“I apologize,” Keith says gravely. 

“Well… good.” The voice sounds mollified. “Look, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know _after_ I make sure he’s alright. Kneel down now, keep your visor trained on his face and take his pulse along his left wrist.” 

Keith obeys. He quietly holds the Terran… Shiro’s… wrist, the visor registering the heart beat in the left lower corner of his display. He focuses his gaze on Shiro’s face while a whirr of numbers and measurements scroll to the top center. It’s a pleasant enough face, Keith supposes, though he has little enough to compare it with. It is no hardship to look on anyway. Keith even finds it enjoyable. 

“Are all Terrans like this?” He wonders aloud. 

“Like what?” the voice asks, distracted. 

“I don’t know,” Keith admits. “His scent is… different.” That is possibly the easiest part of his interest to explain. 

“Describe it,” the voice suggests. Keith does his best. 

“Bergamot,” the voice identifies. “Cedarwood and bergamot. Alphas tend toward woodsy scents.” 

“It is… pleasant,” Keith says tentatively. “I am fond of… bergamot and cedarwood.”

“Are you now?” The voice seems amused. “He’ll just love to hear that, I’ll bet. You should tell him when he wakes up.”

“Will he wake up?” Keith asks, ears perking. 

“Definitely,” the voice assures him. “He just experienced a stress induced syncope. He should recover momentarily.” 

“Is there…” Keith swallows. “May I assist?” 

“Actually… you might have something there. Shiro’s left the ship shields activated, but I can override the external holding bay- there’s a stim-jet medipatch that should keep his stress response from overcompensating again while he’s stationside. That’ll do the trick till he gets back onboard. It’s a quick trip there and back, though this area is not exactly secure for someone in his condition. He’s too heavy to move-”

Keith squats and lifts Shiro over one shoulder. He’s bulky, true, but not so heavy as some things. The eight foot space cargo rat Keith killed three phoebs ago, for example. 

“Ooooor you can do that. Okay, sure. You got someplace safe to stash him till we get back?” 

“The safest of places,” Keith promises, carrying Shiro down the hall and to the dark pleasantly cool closet that holds his nesting supplies. After Keith arranges Shiro in comfortably, he withdraws. 

“Take the blaster,” the voice instructs. 

“I have blades,” Keith objects. “And this area is secure.”

“Blades imply close combat- something I am not interested in risking my delicate little servos on, thank you.” The voice says primly. “I’m not willing to chance it. I’ve done a biometric scan and Shiro will be safe enough for the time being in here but my range is limited.” 

Keith takes the blaster. On the way back to the ship he peppers the voice (PIDGE) with questions that she answers in her brusque, open way. 

“You will tell me anything?” Keith asks, hardly daring to believe it. “Anything I ask?”

“You’re a primary user,” PIDGE explains. “My programming allows you top clearance, along with Shiro and Doctor Garrett.” 

“I do not know them or you,” Keith points out. 

“Not this version of you, anyway,” PIDGE agrees. And then she explains. Clones and rescues and wars and planets and weapons and _Voltron_ and ...time. 

So much time. 

Keith is quiet when they reach the ship. It’s massive and wonderful- chrome shiny and thrumming with energy but Keith is too mired in his own thoughts to enjoy the new sight. He follows PIDGE’s directives and opens the side panel on the outer layer of the ship to extract the emergency kit. 

“Keith, your monoamine oxidase levels are rising.” PIDGE notes. 

“I am not sad,” Keith says automatically. 

“You could be,” PIDGE suggests. “It would be alright if you were.”

“Galra endure,” Keith replies stiffly. 

PIDGE snorts. “Now _there’s_ a universal construct I haven’t heard in years. You’re really drinking that war time Kool-Aid, huh?” 

“The Hydration allocators do not dispense a ‘Kool-Aid,’” Keith says, confused. 

“Sorry, Shiro’s got my vocabulary peppered with archaic Earth slang.” PIDGE sounds exasperated and a little fond. “My settings will take some adjustment for you.” 

“Thank you for clarifying,” Keith says politely. He is not certain of what the protocol is, now that his organization is gone, but PIDGE clearly has more knowledge and experience and thus outranks him… in life, perhaps. One must always show deference to one’s commanding officer. 

“What I meant was that whatever they’ve been telling you out here is probably a good two hundred years behind the times. There is no Empire, and the jingoistic mantra of Galran supremacy died out with it. There’s plenty of Galra out there, but you’d have a hard time finding anyone who’d take that seriously nowadays.” 

“Oh.” Keith pauses, ears drooping. A pleasant thought occurs to him, however. “Your Shiro does not wish to execute me then?” 

“What? _Shiro?_ Absolutely not!” PIDGE sounds scandalized. “I’m not going to pretend like he’s never had to blast his way out of a Junker scrape or two but he’d never willingly go out and try to murder a sentient being. And anyway interrogation is Coalition procedure for outlier contacts.” 

“Oh,” Keith says, feeling somewhat cheered. 

“You don’t want to execute him, do you?” PIDGE asks suspiciously. 

“No,” Keith says casually. “I had intended to die fighting.” 

“Excuse me?” PIDGE sputters. 

Keith cocks an ear. There’s a noise- a wrong kind of noise, coming from what used to be Laboratory K-386-APA but what Keith had repurposed into-

“The pens,” Keith says breathlessly, racing down the hall.


	4. Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do You Humans Ever Stop Complaining

This is just not Shiro’s fucking day. 

He’d woken, visor-less, weapon-less, shut into a room with sweet-smelling darkness in a pile of soft cloth that had a familiar air of gingerbread. Shiro had shouldered his way out into the hall- a different hall than before, clearly deeper in the complex. 

There had been a skittering sort of sound- the sound of something moving, something alive, down the halls he remembered being labelled Labs. He could go back to his ship, manually override, but… 

Keith. 

So it really was no choice at all. 

Haggar’s labs had always had a certain something about them. Over the top, exaggerated darkness, big spaces, ominous, glowing instruments. Nothing sterile or clinical about them. Why bother when she could just chuck large quantities of quintessence at anything to make it stick? Shiro’s never liked labs or clinics or even healing pods much, because of the memories, but he knows it’s an instinctive aversion. Those things don’t have a lot in common besides the _feel_ of it.

This place is different. 

Tubes. Glass tubes. Big enough for a person. A Galra. A monster. They glow faintly, the purple pulsing glow of tainted quintessence, twisting in gold. 

Shiro’s knees buckle and he nearly falls, gripping a small table covered in surgical implements to keep himself upright. The smell of ruined quintessence- like blood in oil. It sinks claws into his stomach and Shiro fights not to retch from it. A few syringes fall to the ground, fragile enough to shatter in a burst of dust and broken glass, among the discarded remains of wartime rations, ripped open and licked clean, rank and sour smelling. Great heaps of them. The room is torture, familiar torture. 

This isn’t there, he tells himself. Count to three. The tubes are empty save the eerie glowing liquid. No bodies, no body parts, no experiments. 

Before he calms, that rustling noise comes again, further along. Shiro snaps to attention. He sees the flicker of movement, behind one of the tubes. Big, dark movement. Shiro’s nose is overwhelmed by the scent of garbage and tainted power. 

“Hello?” Shiro tries again. “Keith? I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.”

He rounds the corner, hand outstretched-

And the fully grown giant space cargo rat hisses, leaping at him, jaws snapping. Shiro reacts without thinking, the close wet-filth stench of mutant rodent alerting him only seconds before the strike. He shoves his prosthetic between the rat’s jaws which scrape and jam on the metal exterior. It winces, sensitive teeth feeling the grate against its nerves. Shiro falls back, kicking out and twisting, trying to put some space between himself and the snarling creature, nearly six feet tall and full of teeth. Its whipcord tail curls around Shiro’s left ankle and he falls backwards, mindful enough to bring his metal hand up between them, to buy some time while his other hand scrabbles behind, reaching out for something, anything- 

Shiro’s hand closes on the leg of the small lab table from before, and he pulls it over, sending the rest of the syringes, scalpels and defunct datapads crashing to the floor. He turns the tabletop between them like a shield and then uses it to pull himself up, like a lion tamer with a chair, he thinks a little hysterically. He’s trapped now, the glow of the purple quintessence behind him, the table and the rat in front. 

A little voice, a little cool voice tells him he could use his arm. It isn’t weapons grade, but it’s industrial strength, and he could smash that glass. Just a little bit, just a drop or two of that shining purple stuff and he’d be able to crush this thing no problem. 

He’d have all the power in the world. 

Just bathe in that red darkness and...

The cargo rat snaps its jaws where his face had been a second before, fetid breath hot against his ear and Shiro shakes his head. Focus. Focus. 

No. He’d rather be dead. But he’ll put up a hell of a fight before he goes. Shiro tenses himself for the next attack, an opening- 

And the cargo rat’s head bursts open in a shower of gore, spattering Shiro with blood and bone and brain. The body slumps forward, sliding down over the upturned table onto the floor. Shiro stares. 

Keith, ears flicked forward in delighted surprise, stands in the doorway, wearing Shiro’s visor and holding Shiro’s blaster. A little trail of smoke trails from the end. 

“You were right, PIDGE,” Keith says wonderingly. “That did work well.” 

Shiro, dazed, lets Keith pull him free of dead rat and overturned lab equipment, tapping the visor with an expert claw and circling Shiro, scanning him for injuries. Keith himself is uninjured and his sleek black undersuit is clean of blood and dust. 

“You should have stayed in the sleeping chamber,” Keith admonishes. “It was secure.” 

“Forgive me, instructions were unclear.” Shiro snipes, unable to help himself. God, there’s even blood behind his _ears._

“Prognosis?” Keith asks. 

“Aside from a slightly elevated heart rate, optimal.” PIDGE answers on the external speakers, loud enough so that Shiro can hear also. 

“Glad to see you’re making friends, PIDGE. Shouldn’t protocol have shut you down once an unauthorized user tried to access? Or were you waiting until he stole the ship too?” Shiro scowls, ignoring how Keith’s tail puffs up at that. 

“That’s not fair. You suffered a vasovagal syncope and Keith offered to assist.” PIDGE flashes lights once, twice, on the outer rim of the visor, distressed. 

“That doesn’t explain the user override.” Shiro argues. He spits to the side, trying to rid himself of the iron-red scent clinging so close to his skin that he can taste it, raw and heavy. 

“That’s part of the original programming,” PIDGE hedges. 

“Explain,” Shiro demands.

“There are several specific DNA profiles that I am keyed to obey with full clearance. That includes any of the original paladins.” 

Shiro runs a hand through his hair. It comes away sticky and streaked red. “So he really _is_ Keith.” 

“I am standing _right here,_ ” Keith snaps suddenly, ears back. “And I do not want to steal your ship- or your PIDGE or your blaster.” He all but shoves the items back at Shiro, who notices a medi-patch mixed in. Keith must have used PIDGE to get back to the ship and access the external emergency kit, and PIDGE, ever pragmatic, had probably suggested leaving Shiro in a safe place and taking his more advanced weaponry along for the retrieval. 

Shiro might know Keith, but he doesn't know _this_ Keith... and this Keith does not know _him._

In fact, Keith is poised to back away, to slide back into the shadows of the base. So much for first impressions. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, defeated. “Seeing you was a shock, but that’s no reason to be so rude. Thank you for helping me.” 

Keith’s ears twitch. “No, that. That is fine.” He seems confused by the apology. “PIDGE says interrogation is Coalition procedure for outlier contacts.” He watches Shiro warily. 

Shiro narrows his eyes at the visor in his hand. The one recording his every move, and likely transmitting it back to the institute and to Hunk. “Oh no,” he deadpans. “I think we’d better preserve the battery.” 

“Shiro! Don’t you _dare-_ ” 

Shiro powers PIDGE down with a beep. 

“I’m not strictly Coalition,” Shiro explains. “And I’m not going to do anything that you don’t want me to- and that includes asking a lot of annoying, invasive questions.” 

Keith stares for a long moment. 

Shiro pulls at his suit, where it sticks to his chest. He winces a little as he sticks the medipatch to his side, where his arm had shielded the area from most of the gore. Thin needles press into the skin and a rush of warm stimulant makes Shiro sigh with relief. “I need a shower,” Shiro says bluntly. “And a change of clothes. We can talk more on my ship, if you want.” 

Keith bristles silently. 

“Or we could talk after I get back?” Shiro offers instead. Perhaps Keith does not like to be commanded so casually from someone he doesn’t know. 

Keith tilts his head to the side. “You are... coming back?” 

“Sure. I haven’t really… surveyed anything yet. There’s some dangerous stuff here I need to log.” Shiro says slowly, trying to test out Keith’s discomfort. Even if Keith wasn’t of immediate and overwhelming interest, the lab is teaming with Restricted Class materials. Keith’s tail lashes from side to side and he bites his lower lip, and Shiro must brace a little against the pang of familiarity it sends through him, an almost physical pain. 

God. He’d never thought he’d see that face again. 

“Do you want me to just... go?” Shiro asks tentatively. That will complicate things, but he hasn’t exactly made a good impression so far… 

“No!” Keith says immediately, taking a little step closer, like it will prevent Shiro from taking off that very moment. He then looks at the ground, as though ashamed to have revealed so much. 

A little idea occurs to Shiro. 

“I’m not going to leave yet. I need to stay, probably for a little while. And even if you come on the ship with me, I promise not to fly anywhere unless you want me to- now or later.” 

“If I want you to leave me here, you will?” Keith asks cautiously. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t agree to,” Shiro says firmly, though looking around this dilapidated wreck he silently swears to himself that he won’t leave until he convinces Keith to come too. “Is it just you here?” He asks, already knowing the answer. 

There’s only one empty tube he can see, open and bare of even a trace of quintessence. 

“Me and the rats,” Keith agrees wryly.


End file.
